


Stand clear of the closing doors, the next station is...

by Yulkka



Series: Stand clear of the closing doors [1]
Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Emotional Hurt, F/F, POV Lexa (The 100), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yulkka/pseuds/Yulkka
Summary: A short story showing a year of Lexa's live. The year when she falls in love.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: Stand clear of the closing doors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617223
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Stand clear of the closing doors, the next station is...

**Author's Note:**

> Well... this is my first attempt to write. And English is not my first language. I hope it's not a total disaster.  
> Waiting for your comments :)  
> Oh... and i highly recommend to listen to this one while readnig:  
> ♪ Heart Song — Elise Lebec ♪
> 
> Lexa's POV

I'm silently standing near the steps of an underpass, hiding from the rain and staring at the gray crying sky. Rapid streams of water are flowing down the drain into sewers, bypassing my shoes and leaving wet marks on the soles.

And I'm sorry. I'm really sorry for making you get out of your warm, cozy apartment on such an awful day. Wind flying from the street into the passage carries small drops of moisture that cut into pale skin in the form of cold drizzle. Dozens of silent passers-by are hurrying back and forth without paying attention to the outside world. They are grimly staring at the rough surface of concrete under their feet. Not a single smile is visible on these tired faces.

Only a short-haired boy in bright yellow rubber boots has just jumped past me, illuminating depressed dark souls with his radiant smile. Corners of my mouth rise involuntarily from the warmth, which he almost accidentally presents to the gray crowd.

My hand squeezes a small white envelope, wet at the corner due to the drops of water flying in all directions. Its contents burn the fingers through a thin layer of paper. You don’t know what’s in there yet. You still don’t know much about me. And after reading this letter, which I’m now holding in the palm of my hand, you most likely won’t want to know anymore. I hope that a little chocolate bar, which I also somehow managed to put into the envelope, will help to reduce the bitterness of the words.

You and I met in October less than a year ago. Back then I couldn’t have imagined who you’d become to me. At first, we were just acquaintances sitting at the same table in foreign language course. And I saw you exactly twice a week, gradually catching myself on the thoughts of how interesting your stories about the life of a student at the Arts Academy are. I was listening about your dreams and plans to study abroad, anywhere but here.  
I tried to tell you something about my work, realizing that you might not be interested in the activities of some boring technology company. But you were listening. You were listening, despite the stuttering, which always appeared when I was worrying. Then I told you that I also kind of liked drawing. I showed you photos of my mediocre works with trembling hands and praying to god that you wouldn’t take me for another office fool.  
And you shared yours with me. In all my life haven’t I seen anything more beautiful. On the surface of thick, pastel colored paper were dancing bright and at the same time graceful lines forming into portraits of strangers. I thought, a little selfishly, that it would be wonderful someday to look at the author from these pages. I dreamt that you would want to draw my face one day.

Time passed, and we became friends. It was January when we went to a skating rink. You didn’t dare to step on the slippery surface, because you hadn’t done this before and was afraid to break all your bones. You were still standing behind the side of the rink, and I was trying to impress you, sliding across the ice like a madwoman. I almost crashed into some poor fellow who came out of nowhere on my way. And you were laughing at my antics covering your mouth with a mitten.

In March I invited you to try my always awesome lasagna. At least I had been thinking it was awesome, until that day. I was trying to achieve the perfect result so hard that I messed everything up in the end. And we ate some kind of goo spreading all over the plate. You were, however, portraying pleasure, closing your eyes with every bite and moaning with satisfaction. I was looking at you with wide eyes trying to understand whether I had really managed to achieve if not a satisfactory consistency, then at least a good taste.  
I told you about my dream of learning to play the guitar on that day. My parents always told me that this was a waste of time, and I didn’t believe that I had talent for this anyway. You just smiled and said: “Music cannot be a waste of time. Just believe in yourself.”  
After those words, something changed in my heart, and since then I began to realize that this ‘something’ moved my dusty soul.

I began to pay more attention to how beautiful you are. Slightly curly, shortened blond hair, always sparkling blue eyes of the color of warm summer sky, and thin pink lips with a small mark above them.  
You once confessed to me that you didn’t like your appearance, didn’t like your slightly rounded hips and short fingers. I assured you of the opposite, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Because you are beautiful, both inside and outside.

It was May when we went to an open-air jazz concert. One of so many common things that we found between us was our love to this style of music. Sad sounds of saxophone were flying into starry spring sky. We were standing at the edge of the crowd, and I closed my eyes when a second later I felt a warm touch on my hand. This was the first time you touched my palm taking it in yours and pulling me towards the stage. I was standing right behind you trying to calm the trembling wave that rose from my fingertips to the chest. My heart was beating against the ribs with the force of a thousand drums.

You invited me to a party dedicated to some popular singer. It was June. And I was still standing behind not to interrupt you or other viewers watching the performance of some local music band. And you pulled me forward again forcing to stand next to you. Leaning in closer to my ear you said: "Don't be such an altruist." I smiled shyly at your words staring at your face from the side.  
We walked around the night city for a long time wandering around semi-illuminated streets. We made a bet, and I was now trying to finish my tub of chocolate ice cream when you raised the topic of your “short” fingers again. I rolled my eyes and wiped my wet hand against the jeans. Then I simply extended it trying to visually compare the length of our fingers. From what I saw, yours were no shorter than mine. And you just put your palm on mine. The touch sent goosebumps along my spine. By that moment, I already knew that I fell in love.

It was one wonderful day in July when we were joyfully jumping across corridors after passing our foreign language exams. We were rushing down the stairs when I asked if you were going to sign up for the next year course. At that very moment, just with a single look at your face I realized that you were not going to. A second later you told me you were going to the university abroad, the one you dreamt of. The first thing I felt was that I was incredibly proud of you.  
When we hugged goodbye, a smile flew off my face. I was still happy for you, but selfishness and realization that I couldn’t see you soon again did their job. That night was the first of many others when I could not fall asleep because of painful sobs bursting from my chest.

We began to see each other less often. You were busy preparing all the documents for the departure. From the window of my apartment I silently watched the fading signs of summer.

Despair. That is the feeling that burns me from the inside. It doesn’t let my head function normally. It was also despair, which made me write the letter now burning my fingertips.  
I’m sorry. I apologize for falling for you. I'm sorry, if I bothered you too much with my presence. I apologize for writing this.

I know that it’s impossible for you to feel anything more than friendship towards me. You often talked about you dream family with a nice husband and two children. I did not comment realizing that I was completely lost.

Ink was forming into simple and at the same time hardest words: "I love you."  
I could never say this out loud. I couldn’t, because I’m terrified of your possible reaction. It's easier this way.

And now I’m standing here trying to calm my frantic heartbeat, watching the gray surroundings. And I recognize your face, slightly wet from water dust. A pair of sticky strands are falling on your cheeks. You smile a little exhausted, tired of the daily routine, and I try to restrain the sadness pouring from my eyes and smile awkwardly in response.

I pull you in tight embrace trying to remember your warmth. I pass you the envelope asking to open it when you get home. You agreed to see me for a couple of minutes so that you could soon run away again. We go down to the subway together to get on different trains running in opposite directions. As if planned, they come at the same time. We stand in the middle of the platform silently looking at each other. You are smiling sweetly seemingly not feeling the importance of the moment. I am trying to remember every line of your face. Time mercilessly rushes forward, and it's time to say goodbye. You hug me tightly as always and turn your back to reach your train. Trying not to let you out of my sight I enter mine and look at your retreating silhouette.

Stand clear of the closing doors, the next station is ....

You left.  
I stayed.  
You never drew me.  
I learned to play the guitar


End file.
